


Your Move

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://torchwood-fest.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://torchwood-fest.livejournal.com/"></a><b>torchwood_fest</b> for the prompt: <i>Pre-Torchwood; Time period: Time Agency; John dresses as a movie serial killer and Jack goes in drag as his pretty victim at either a party or just trick-or-treating.</i></p><p>Much love to my lovely, brilliant and endlessly patient betas <a href="http://bohemiabythesea.livejournal.com">bohemiabythesea</a> and <a href="http://heddychaa.livejournal.com">heddychaa</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Move

  


It’s an easy enough mission: blend into the crowd at the masquerade party, make the exchange, head back to the Agency. So they take advantage of the happy circumstance, and dress in ridiculously stimulating outfits. It’s the 2190s, a decade that bores Jack, but he’s with John and John is never boring.

John is overflowing with energy, even more so than is usual for him. His cheeks are flushed from dancing, his body made to fit the 1950s-style suit he’s wearing. He’d wanted to be Norman Bates’s _mother_ , and Jack had had to point out that while one of them in women’s clothing would be hot, both of them dressed as women might seem slightly ludicrous.

Watching John dance with a young man in a skintight leopard costume, Jack adjusts a garter as surreptitiously as he can. Wearing stockings for fun is all very well, but he’s had the damned things on for four hours now and the elastic is beginning to make its presence felt. So is the ridiculously flimsy thong, barely a scrap of black lace at the back and a whisper-thin shred of red silk in the front, the clingy fabric framed with black sequins that are nestling into the creases of his thighs. It’s the arousal more than the discomfort that’s bothering him.

John glances over at him, and Jack wonders lazily if the boy ensconced in John’s arms is going to be invited to play with them. As if reading his thoughts, John twirls the boy around so that Jack has a good view of his arse encased in shiny black vinyl, the leopard tail dangling enticingly between his legs, and now Jack’s certain the kid’s already invited. John murmurs something into the leopard’s ear, pats his cheek reassuringly— _I’ll be back before you know it_ , that gesture says—and slithers his way through the dancers toward Jack.

  


*

‘So, princess,’ John says after they’ve snagged a couple of drinks and moved out onto the balcony. ‘What’s got you all grumpy?’ Jack’s not going to answer, and John knows he isn’t: he’s merely throwing the question out as a mild warning: _Don’t you dare fuck this up now_.

It’s been raining, and the fragrance of water lingers in the air as they make their way to the balustrade. The wind ruffles Jack’s hair, shiny gold strands trailing over his face. He leans his silky-gloved arms against cold marble, John’s body warm beside him, as they look down into the smog-covered street.

Jack leans forward on his elbows, letting John’s hand trail feather-light along his back until his arm is around Jack’s shoulders. John’s fingertips, the only part of him that doesn’t seem warm, touch Jack’s cheek. It’s the only gentle touch they’ll share that night. Later, John will shove the red silk dress up around Jack’s hips, rip off the thong and stuff it into Jack’s mouth. His breath will be hot against Jack’s ear as he keeps up an endless stream of obscenities while fucking into Jack’s body, the heels of Jack’s strappy red sandals digging into his flesh as Jack wraps his legs tight around John’s waist. He’ll slice the dress to shreds with his serial-killer’s knife, hold the cold blade to Jack’s throat and make him stroke himself in time with John’s thrusts, the play exciting them both until its purpose is spent.

But right now, his arms are like splashes of blood against white stone and John’s fingertips are touching his cheek. Jack turns his face into the caress, but the teasing fingers dance away. It's not enough. John dips his head, flicks his warm, wet tongue over the diamond in Jack’s earlobe, his teeth sharp on unguarded flesh. Jack gasps at the suddenness of the bite and John laughs in his ear, shoving two fingers into Jack’s mouth, smearing his lipstick with a thumb. Jack stills, yields, gets his mouth fucked. Then he bites the fingers hard, throwing up a careless glance at John’s face, and it’s John’s move again.

  



End file.
